I firmly believe that my mother is a
spy. Not the run of the mill, garden variety snoop, but a hard core, James
Bond-rivaling agent of intrigue and defender of national security. Not only
did she have eyes in the back of her head, but there were other clues to
tip me off, as well.
Mom always knew what I had plotted to do, even before I'd done anything.
When I was a teenager, heading out the door to my friend's house where we
conspired to stay up all night making prank phone calls and watching the
forbidden "R" rated movies, she would forewarn, "behave yourself" or "don't
even think about it." How did she know?
Obviously, she could read my face. As it turned out, we spent most nights
committing perjury in front of the mirror, watching for subtle changes in
our facial expressions and vowing to never play high-stakes-poker with her.
Randomly, during the school year, she would ask if my grades were good --
to which I would always respond in the affirmative. "Look me in the eyes,"
she would say. Oh no, not the eyes! It was a truth serum no one could deny.
My teenage subterfuge tactics were no match for her all knowing eyes. I,
predictably, spent the remainder of the semester studying in my room.
Clearly, she had completed a detailed regimen of specialized training. She
was accomplished at her craft; the best in her field. Whenever a toy broke
in our house, mom knew how to fix it (High-tech Gadgetry Repair 101). The
picture in her High School annual didn't even resemble her (obviously, a
master of disguise). And, she apparently had instruction as a Quick-Change
artist. In the blink of an eye, she could progress from point A: making breakfast
for the family while still in her bathrobe and sporting pink foam curlers
hair curlers, to point B: dressed to the nines and ready to leave the house
for church.
Her stealth-mode capabilities annoyed me most. The minute I divulged a deep,
dark secret to my best friend, there she was, out of nowhere.
Never mind the fact that she spoke in unbreakable code to her "friends" on
the telephone, but she hid Christmas presents so even foreign intelligence
satellites couldn't locate them.
The guilt glare topped her repertoire. Presumably, a secret bio-chemical
compound tainted her searing stare, rendering me helpless to its power. Even
the strongest of super heroes would fold under the pressure. Confessions
spilled out of me, before I even had a chance to think.
Her extra sensory perception spanned space and time. While I was away at
college (300 miles from home), she somehow knew I was living on junk food,
leaving my dirty clothes on the floor, and staying up too late gabbing with
my roommate, prompting me to sweep the dorm room for listening devices.
Finally, and most mystifying of all, mom always had an endless supply of
tissues in her pocket. I don't know exactly how this fits into the whole
"spy thing," but it's true just the same.
About the Author:
Kellie resides in central Illinois, is married and is the mother of six children.
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